


But I'm Sick of Learning How to Die

by yet_intrepid



Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Caning, Corporal Punishment, Gen, Gender-Neutral Pronouns for Pidge | Katie Holt, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Protective Shiro (Voltron)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-23
Updated: 2016-10-23
Packaged: 2018-08-24 03:20:04
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,717
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8354875
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yet_intrepid/pseuds/yet_intrepid
Summary: The paladins caused collateral damage in a battle, and they've resolved to do what they need to so their alliance with the impacted planet stays intact. Unfortunately, said planet has a judicial system based on corporal punishment.
Shiro has a plan to deal with this, but he underestimates what his team will do to protect him.





	

The courtroom, unlike the rest of what Shiro’s seen of this planet, is dark—just a few lights overhead, no windows. It doesn’t help his mood in the least. But when Pidge peers up at him, he does his best to return a reassuring smile.

“We’ll sort this out,” he tells them, as they all step towards the platform designated for the accused. “You’ll see. Be out of here in no time.”

“Yeah,” mutters Hunk, “but not before one of us gets it.”

“Just trust me,” Shiro mutters. “It’ll be fine.”

He can feel his teammates exchanging glances behind his back as he starts up the steps to the platform. They’re right to be worried, much as he doesn’t want to admit it—Allura took a break from repairing the castle to radio down with what she could find on this planet’s judicial system, and the court records had produced only variations on the same sentence, over and over again. Corporal punishment.

“There is a chance I could break you all out,” she’d told him, as she finished the briefing. “The castle’s landing gear is damaged, but—”

“No,” he’d told her, even though it made him sick to his stomach to do it. “We can’t jeopardize our alliance here. And we _did_ cause damages during the fight.”

“I agree.” She hadn’t sounded happy, though. “But the younger paladins…”

“Don’t worry,” he’d told her. “I have a plan.”

And he does have a plan. Not a surefire one, but the planet’s inhabitants seem reasonable—looking for justice, or their interpretation of it, not revenge. Shiro rests his hands on the railing in front of him and looks up at the judge as his team lines up around him.

“Your Honor,” he says. He’s not actually sure what the proper term is, here, but it seems safest, and he’s been told that the accused are required to open the trial with either admission or denial of guilt. Only in the case of denial are the prosecutors required to present evidence. “We, the paladins of Voltron, offer our deepest apologies for the harm our careless actions have done to your planet. While fighting Zarkon’s forces, we took unnecessary risks which destroyed livelihoods, and could have destroyed lives.”

He feels Keith shifting nervously beside him, but goes on. “I, as the team’s leader, humble myself before your judgment. I accept full responsibility for the orders I gave, and will bear full punishment.”

“What? No!”

Shiro sighs. It’s Lance, of course, and Shiro hopes the outburst won’t lead to more trouble. But Lance is, astoundingly, composing himself.

“Permission to speak, Your Honor?” he asks.

The judge raises his green eyebrows. “Permission granted.”

“I’m the one who took the shot that hit the warehouse, Your Honor! Shiro didn’t make me do that! I’m the one that did it and so it’s my fault and, you know, me. Punish me.”

Shiro glares at Lance, but Lance won’t even look at him, and the rest of the team is shuffling around and muttering until Hunk’s hand flies up in the air, as though this is a classroom at the Garrison and not a terrifying court in another galaxy.

The judge’s eyebrows go up again. “Permission to speak.”

“Uh, hey, Your Honor. So I know Lance says he did it, but I’m pretty sure he’s wrong, he’s a terrible shot anyway and he missed, I’m the one who hit it—”

“And my lion fell on top of the building after it collapsed!” Pidge bursts out.

“And mine—” Keith starts, and Shiro starts to panic. No, no, no. This is not what was supposed to happen.

“Your Honor,” he says again, over the various claims the rest of them are making. (He thinks he hears something about Voltron not being environmentally friendly, and Hunk is still insulting Lance’s skills with a blaster, so it’s clear someone has to intervene.) “Your Honor, I am the leader. I gave the orders. I am responsible!”

“Enough!” shouts someone to the left of the judge, and they all fall silent, although Lance gives Hunk one last push, almost making him topple into Shiro.

“Your admission of guilt has been noted,” the judge says. “According to the documents with which I have been supplied, the warehouse you destroyed provided jobs for fifty-seven of our people. Accordingly, the punishment will consist of fifty-seven strokes of the judicial rod.”

“Your Honor,” Shiro says again. Maybe breaking a few more rules will get him scapegoated the way he needs to be. (Fifty-seven is a lot, judging from the records Allura sent him, but he’s trying not to think about that.) “Your Honor, I will bear the blame.”

The rest of the team starts clamoring again, and Shiro shouts over them. “Please, Your Honor, on our own world these are children! They followed my lead; I am the only one liable—”

“Enough!”

They quiet down. Hunk pushes Lance, and Shiro fixes both of them with a glare.

“There is a tradition,” the judge begins, “one which we have not invoked in my lifetime, but which fits the case before us now. As is standard, the guilty must demonstrate contrition by keeping themselves in place for the punishment determined. But as we have a division of guilt, the punishment will also be divided. When each prisoner can no longer keep in place, we will move to the next, until the full sentence is accomplished.”

Shiro bites back protests. The alliance, he reminds himself. They’ve got to preserve the alliance.

“You will draw lots,” the judge continues, “to determine the order. If those who go first can bear the full sentence, the rest will be spared. If the last of you is reached and cannot bear what remains, we will return to the first.”

Someone comes down from the judge’s bench, holding five identical cubes in his hand. They each take one—Pidge first, then Keith, Shiro, Hunk, and Lance. Slowly, the cubes light up, displaying numbers.

Shiro blinks at his. It doesn’t change, and nausea starts rising in his stomach.

It’s a five.

“Sentence will be carried out in the morning,” the judge says, as the numbers come up next to pictures of their faces on a screen. Shiro stares at it desperately. He’s still at the end. “Return the guilty to their chambers.”

\----

“Listen,” Shiro starts, as soon as the door to their shared cell has been locked and the guards’ steps have faded away. “What the hell.”

“Yeah,” agrees Lance, flopping down on the floor and staring up at the ceiling. “I’d have thought a civilization like this would’ve evolved out of hitting people!”

“ _You_ clearly haven’t evolved out of hitting people,” Hunk points out, folding his arms and leaning against the wall.

“Yeah, well,” Lance sputters, “you—you had it coming!”

“That’s enough,” Shiro says. He sits down on the floor too, lets it ground him against the panic that’s swelling in his gut. “The point is, you don’t ever do this again, understand? Any of you. You don’t know what you’ve gotten into here.”

“Oh,” says Keith, “so you do?”

Shiro meets his eyes. “Not exactly, but I have a much better idea of what to expect. And I know I can deal with it.”

“And we can’t?” Keith rolls his eyes. “You’re fine with us getting into laser battles in space, but you don’t think we can take a couple hits with a stick?”

“Actually,” Shiro shoots back, “I’m _not_ fine with you all being in battle. But that, unfortunately, is a necessary evil right now. This wasn’t necessary. Not at all.”

“Yes, it is!” Pidge, lying on the floor next to Lance, sits up halfway to give Shiro their most indignant look. “You just practically admitted to having been beaten before!”

Shiro looks away from them. He has to, sometimes, when the resemblance to Matt gets to be too much. “Which means, as I said, that I know I can deal with it. What exactly is your point, Pidge?”

“The point is,” puts in Hunk, “that just because you’ve dealt with it before doesn’t mean you have to now! We’re a team, Shiro. We all have to take care of each other, right?”

“Of course we’re a team,” Shiro says. “But I have more experience than the rest of you. I’m older, and me taking care of you comes first.”

“Oh, you’re _older_ ,” Lance mocks. “What are you now, team dad? Are you gonna bring us Capri Suns after our soccer games? I mean, actually I’d like that, Capri Suns are great, but—”

“What we’re saying is,” says Pidge, “you’re not on your own anymore. You don’t have to do things that—that aren’t good for you.”

Shiro raises his eyebrows. “I know what this is about,” he says, looking around at everyone. They all stare back at him, stubborn and unimpressed. “This is about me being a prisoner, isn’t it?”

The stares don’t change. Shiro sighs.

“Look,” he says. “You don’t have to protect me, okay? When I said I could deal with it, I meant that. What I can’t deal with is knowing that an order I gave hurt not just the people on this planet, but also my team.”

Nobody even blinks.

Fuck, thinks Shiro, they think I can’t cope with my trauma. And maybe they’re right.

“Okay,” he says, and his voice comes out more exhausted than he likes. “I know we can’t change this now. But I need you to promise me that you won’t try to tough it out tomorrow. If you can’t deal with it, it’s okay. Just let the next person step up. Okay?”

They all keep staring at him, faces set. The silence ticks on.

“Would you promise us that?” Keith asks, finally.

“That’s different!” Shiro says.

They keep staring at him. All of them silent, even Lance. Shiro gives up, climbing into one of the bunks and curling up with his face to the wall.

“You think we should—” Hunk starts, in an admirable impersonation of a whisper.

“No,” says Keith. “Let him be.”

\----

In the morning, guards bring them food, along with a pile of white fabric that turns out to be something like hospital gowns. At least they won’t be naked, Shiro thinks; that’ll make it a bit easier. 

Nobody eats. Shiro makes them each drink a glass of water, though, and they watch pointedly as he drains one himself. After that, they all change into the hospital gown things. Lance tries a couple butt jokes, but nobody manages to laugh.

As they wait, Shiro realizes that he doesn’t remember who drew first. He doesn’t know anything about the order, actually, other than that he’s last. But asking seems like a bad idea—the stubbornness that lined every face last night is starting to crack, and he doesn’t want to make anything worse.

He doesn’t know, either, exactly how bad this is going to be. He knows Allura found sentences that were higher than fifty-seven, all for one person, but these aliens seemed to have much tougher skin than humans. Hide, almost. Shiro hopes that the court noticed that and took it into account.

Finally, he hears footsteps in the hall again.

“Okay,” Shiro says, and they all look at him. “Listen up. We’ve done a lot of hard things together, and we can get through this too. Just breathe deep and try to think about something else, okay? And if it’s too much, just move out of position. We’ll make it.”

Pidge rushes at him then, wrapping their arms around his waist, and everyone else clusters in too.

“Keith,” says Lance, “I know I’m unbearably attractive wearing this, but stop touching my butt.”

“I’m not touching your butt!”

“Okay,” Shiro says again, but not too harshly—if it helps them deal, he’s not going to make them stop. He gives one last squeeze to the group hug. “Ready?”

“Totally,” says Hunk, although he looks like he’s going to throw up.

The door opens. Shiro steps forward, and the rest of them fall in behind him as the guards lead them through a maze of hallways and out a door labeled “Courtyard.”

It’s not a courtyard, exactly, though—Shiro can tell that from the noise filtering through. It’s an arena.

When the door opens, he can see the crowds. They’re not cheering or shouting like they might if this were a gladiator match, but they don’t necessarily seem sympathetic either. Shiro looks away from them, away from the screens that show him stepping out onto the stage. Overhead, there’s no ceiling, and sunlight filters in.

You’re not with the Galra, he tells himself. See? They never would’ve let you in the open air.

The guards lead them to the center of the circle, nudging them to kneel. There’s a table nearby, and on it a thick cane. Shiro swallows. It definitely looks like something designed to do serious damage, even to the protective skin of the planet’s inhabitants.

The screens that hang around the arena flicker to life, showing the number one and Keith’s picture. Keith gets to his feet, his face pale and still. He plants his hands on the table as one of the guards picks up the cane.

Shiro takes a deep breath. “Don’t look,” he murmurs to the others.

A brief announcement plays on the screen, rehearsing the offense and the number of strokes. Shiro can see Keith shaking.

Finally, they get on with it. The cane goes up slow and comes down fast, with a sickeningly familiar noise—Shiro can’t remember when it was he heard it before, but he doesn’t want to anyway, not right now. Keith yells for a second, then cuts himself off. There’s a dark red welt rising, maybe a hint of blood, but Keith is still in position.

Shiro glances at the rest of the team. The façade of stubbornness is totally gone, now, and they look scared. And try as he might, Shiro can’t think of anything comforting to say.

The guard hits Keith again. He doesn’t yell, this time, just gasps a bit. The screen’s showing video, now—first the damage, in horribly high resolution, then Keith’s face. He’s biting his lip.

Come on, Shiro thinks. Come on, just end it.

It’s not that he wants to take a beating himself, exactly, but it’s better than watching. Better than seeing his team get hurt—and there’s number three, and Keith is still holding out—and knowing it’s his fault.

“Shiro,” Pidge whispers. He turns to them.

“You okay?”

Pidge nods, a bit frantically. “Shiro,” they repeat. “You said to try to think about something else, right? But I can’t, I can’t even think of things to think about, what do I think about?”

Four. Shiro glances away from Pidge for a second, just long enough to see that Keith is definitely bleeding now. Then he pulls his gaze away.

“Whatever you like,” he whispers back. “Your favorite food, or taking a nap after a long day, or whatever new tweaks you’re doing for your lion. Or even just—the sky. Anything.”

“What if I’m thinking about how much I want to throw up?” whispers Hunk.

Five. Damn it, Keith.

“You’re always thinking about that,” mutters Lance, irritably. “Have you tried _not_ thinking about it? Maybe then you wouldn’t, you know, actually hurl.”

“Nah,” says Hunk, “I’ve tried that. Makes it worse.”

Six. Keith yells again, bites it back. He’s still holding out.

“Remember,” Shiro tells the three of them. “You can end it whenever you need to, okay? Don’t feel like you have to keep going.”

They nod, this time, and Shiro smiles at them as best he can. He hopes he can actually hold out, once it gets to his turn. He’s had worse, definitely, but he doesn’t remember ever having to keep himself still for it. And even a few hits with this doesn’t look like a joke.

The cane comes down again and finally Keith buckles, collapsing against the table. The screen flashes Keith’s picture, seven tally marks beneath it. Then the picture changes: Lance.

“Here goes nothing,” Lance mutters, getting to his feet as Keith stumbles away from the table.

“Keith!” Hunk catches him as he totters, helps him lie down on the smooth wooden floor of the arena. “You’re okay, buddy, I got you…”

Keith looks up at Shiro. “Sorry,” he whispers.

Shiro reaches for his hand, gives it a comforting squeeze. “Don’t be sorry,” he says, hoping desperately that Keith will believe him. “You did good, okay? Really good.”

They’ve started on Lance already, and it seems like there’s less time between strokes now. Lance is babbling, something about fried eggplant and skateboarding mixed with exclamations of pain, but he’s three strokes in and hasn’t wavered. Hunk is hovering over Keith, and Shiro’s grateful for that—because Keith could use it, for one thing, but also because Hunk needs the distraction.

“And you know what,” Lance is saying, “one time when I was in detention at the Garrison, the supervising teacher fell asleep and I drew a mustache on him, it was a really good one, but I—owwww, man, that’s totally unnecessary, wow—geez. Anyway he didn’t look in the mirror or shower or anything before class the next day, and I guess no one told him, maybe he wasn’t married and lived by himself or maybe everyone just thought it was funny, which it was—ow, quiznak, man!—but anyway he came to class with the mustache and we were all cracking up—”

Shiro glances over at the others. Keith is hiding his face, trying valiantly not to cry, and Hunk is muttering something about antibiotics. Pidge’s brow is furrowed, deep in thought.

Lance keeps talking, occasionally glancing up at the tally marks on the screen. After the eighth one, he loses his footing and, automatically, the screen flashes his picture with the final count.

Okay, Shiro thinks, as he gets up to help Lance. That’s fifteen between them—so even if Hunk and Pidge only do one each, I’m down to forty. I can do that. I can do it.

The screen is showing Hunk’s picture now, and Pidge pats Hunk on the shoulder as he gets up, looking sicker than ever. Shiro lowers Lance to the ground next to Keith.

“I won,” Lance says. “Did you see that? I won. I got more than you.”

“Shut up,” mutters Keith.

Hunk throws up after number four. The guards call a halt while they carry away the table and replace it with a clean one. When they come back, Pidge is already standing up, waiting.

Shiro pushes Hunk’s sweaty hair off his forehead, and watches. From the back, Pidge could _be_ Matt; there’s no difference but the height—Pidge is too short to brace their hands on the table and bend over the way the others did, but they do their best.

_“Matt, no, please—”_

_He’s kneeling, still, but when he looks up the sky is gone, replaced by a high, dark ceiling and a dull purple glow. The Galra guards have a blade to his throat, keeping him down._

_“Shiro, it’s fine!” Matt is unbelievably calm as a robot snaps cuffs around his hands and fastens him to some kind of apparatus on the wall. “Shiro, stop, okay, it won’t help—”_

_Shiro knows it won’t. He’s not sure he cares. He is sure, though, that he can’t just let this happen, can’t just watch while they beat Matt for stealing enough food to stay alive. He can’t._

_Matt yells when it starts, a high-pitched noise that tears at Shiro—_

Only it’s Pidge yelling, the exact same sound. Shiro shakes himself and looks up—the tally marks on the screen are up to five already. Pidge’s magnified face is fiercely determined, their lips moving soundlessly.

Shiro can’t look away. Shit, he thinks, what would Matt think of me now? I couldn’t protect him, and I can’t protect Pidge either.  

Six, and seven. There’s no unmarked skin left on Pidge’s backside, and the eighth stroke lands diagonally across the welts and cuts already there. Pidge cries out, going up on their toes but hastily planting their feet back on the ground.

The guard lifts the cane again.

No, Shiro wants to protest, they moved, didn’t you see—but it’s too late. The alliance, he reminds himself, but it’s cold comfort.

Pidge is making constant noises, now, and the whimpers and groans between each hit are as hard to hear as the yelling. Shiro twists his metal fist against the floor.

_“Please, okay—we won’t do it again—”_

_The guards kick him to keep him quiet. They don’t ease up on Matt, and Shiro is shaking, angry and hopeless and sick._

Pidge starts to fall. In an instant, Shiro is up and across and beside them, making sure they don’t hit the ground, helping them back to the others. Finally, he thinks. No more of this other people getting hurt for him. No more, ever again.

With Pidge lying down next to Hunk, Shiro looks over his team. Keith looks back at him.

“If you need to—” Keith starts, and Shiro shakes his head.

He turns away, stepping towards the table. Lays his hands against the surface, bears down. The screen lights up with his face and flashes the number left to go: twenty-seven.

All he has to do, he tells himself, is hold still.

It hurts when they start. He knew it would, but the first hit is always a shock. Shiro slows down his breathing, focuses on the feeling of his feet firm against the floor. Two, three. He can acclimate to this. It doesn’t hurt as much as the barbed whip the Galra treated him to once or twice, or the time in the arena when an open wound in his side got sprayed with alien venom.

Four. When he has to, he’ll go away in his mind. He’ll think about the Garrison or about flying, and he won’t feel anything at all until after. But he doesn’t have to yet, and he wants to keep control as long as he can.

It keeps going, relentless, and standing still is hard. Flinching has been programmed into him, after all, the instinct to cower and hide and make them think you’re weak until the time comes to act. But he’s there; he’s still; he’s going to do this.

Shiro thinks about his hands, metal and flesh pressed against the table. The knuckles on his real hand are white, and he watches his fingers tense at every hit. Notices, absently, that his wrist is shaking.

The pain must be getting worse, he thinks; his breath is coming out in sharp grunts and in with desperate quivers. He glances up at the screen and realizes that things are a little blurry. He can’t quite count the tally marks, but he’s past ten.

When he checks in with his body again, it takes everything in him not to crumple. He’d forgotten what it was like, to hurt this much, to know that it’s only going to get worse. It comes over him in waves, the harsh ache and sharp throb from his beating, and the memories too.

_“Well, Champion.” It’s Sendak, maybe, or one of the other Galra—the face is blurry; Shiro can’t be sure. “Another fine performance in the arena.”_

_Shiro keeps his head down. It’s doubtful this is a congratulatory visit, not when he came out of the fight and was immediately escorted down to solitary. He’s still bleeding out in at least two places. Possibly why things are blurry._

_“But—” and there it is— “something has come to my attention. Something under your mattress, to be specific.”_

_Great. Just what he needs. Sendak, or whoever, dangles a holopad in Shiro’s face. It’s got a map of the ship pulled up on the screen._

_Shiro gets up when ordered, though he very much wants to stay on the floor. If they’re going to beat him, can’t he at least lie down? He blinks, trying to clear his head and keep steady—_

And in front of him is the table, his hands, sunlight. He blinks again, disoriented, and before he can remember where he is, there’s a fierce crack of pain across his upper thighs.

He cries out and sways a little, dizzy, but catches himself in time. He’s got to outlast this, or Keith…

They hit him again, and again. He squints at the screen, but he can’t tell what it says. Doesn’t matter, anyway. However many there are, he’ll take them.

The next one, though, almost jolts him off his feet. He can’t tell if they’re hitting harder or if he’s just lost his tolerance, but it’s time for a new strategy.

The Garrison, he thinks, and he closes his eyes and stares at it: his old dorm room, the only space that was ever really his. To the left of the door, the desk and chair, both standard-issue aluminum and usually covered in papers. The little solar system model on the shelf, something Matt gave him as a joke after he forgot Jupiter’s name one time when he was drunk—

It hurts, it hurts so bad, and Shiro can hear himself screaming. He’s out of practice for sure.

His bed up against the wall, the green and orange quilt that he found at a thrift shop, the old pillow he never bothered to replace. Posters on the wall—

He’s too dizzy, he can’t see it. They keep hitting him and he keeps yelling and when his eyes are closed he’s sure he’s going to open them to that horrible purple, so he doesn’t open them at all. He just has to stay still, he doesn’t even know why, but he’s got to.

Maybe they’ll kill him if he doesn’t? But why would they, he’s a good fighter, he’s earning his keep, and he wants to beg them to stop but he knows that makes it worse, it only ever makes things worse—

They hit him again, and this time it’s definitely harder, and if this keeps going, Shiro thinks, he’s going to fall eventually. He tries to focus on his hands again, or his feet, but he can’t feel anything other than the cane coming down.

Then it stops. Shiro gasps, waiting, not daring to hope that it’s over.

Then there’s some voice, loud over the speakers. “With this final stroke,” it says, “all guilt is absolved.”

Shiro blinks his eyes open, and as he does, wondering at the light which is not at all purple, a last thundering blow knocks him forward.

No, he thinks, as he grips at the table, trying not to fall. No, I can’t move, they said not to move!

He lands hard on his knees. Fumbling, desperate, he tries to pull himself back up; the voice on the speakers is announcing something else, but he can’t tune in enough to tell what. And then people are touching him gently, warm hands on his shoulders, and they’re saying his name.

“Shiro, Shiro, hey—”

He squints at the closest person. “Matt?”

“Yeah,” says the person, amid a jumble of other voices. “Yeah, I’m here. Let’s just get you out of here, okay?”

\----

“Don’t drop him on the floor!”

When the people supporting him on either side come to a halt, Shiro stops, too. He’s not quite sure where he is or where he’s going, but being on the floor doesn’t sound too bad. It’d be kind of nice, actually, to lie down, as long as they didn’t drop him too hard.

“You know what, Lance,” says the person on his left, “if you want to lift Shiro onto the top bunk over there, go ahead. I’m going to get through to Allura, since that’s clearly the priority here!”

“You know what, Keith,” replies a voice behind him, “I think you’re just worn out by holding this dude up. You should work on your muscles—”

“Stop it, Lance,” says someone else, and Shiro feels himself slipping. His knees buckle.

There’s a general outcry, and a bunch of hands reach for him, breaking his fall. There are a bunch of voices, too.

“Get him a pillow.”

“No, no no no, let’s put him on the bed.”

“He’s already on the floor! You really think we can stand him up again?”

“Nah, we can just—”

“Quit it, Lance!”

“Oh, I should quit it? You’re the one bumping against my ass—which hurts, thank you very much!”

“I’ve got a pillow, here you go...”

“He’s breathing, right? He’s not, like, dead?”

“Quit it, Hunk!”

Shiro opens his eyes when the pillow wedges under his face and the floor. They’re all around him, his team, staring at him in obvious worry.

“Hey,” he manages.

“Shiro!” Pidge lights up. “Are you okay?”

“Yeah,” he says, trying to sound like it isn’t a lie. “Just….need a little rest. But you, everyone—how are you?”

“It was terrible!” Lance exclaims. “What a stupid tradition!”

“Shut up,” says Keith. “We’re still on their planet; they’ll hear you.”

“We’re fine,” Pidge tells Shiro, over the continued bickering. “We’re back in the jail for now, but not because we’re prisoners. We just have to get our uniforms and call Allura so we can go back to the castle.”

“I can call her,” Shiro says. He raises himself on his elbows. “Where’s my helmet?”

“Nuh-uh,” says Hunk. “We’ll do it. I’ll do it. Nope, never mind, Keith’s already doing it. See? Everything’s taken care of.”

Shiro lowers himself back down again, resisting the urge to close his eyes. He’d forgotten how exhausting it is, getting beaten—but he’s not the only one dealing with it, and he’s responsible for his team. “Keith?”

“Yeah?”

“Allura on her way?”

“Yeah,” Keith says. “They finished enough of the repairs that they can land the castle right outside.”

Shiro nods. “Thanks.”

“Sure thing.”

Keeping his eyes open is so hard. He shuts them for a second, and as he does he feels someone lying down next to him.

“Hey Shiro?” Pidge’s voice is trembling; Shiro reaches blindly to place a hand on their shoulder.

“Yeah?”

“You know where you are, now, right?”

“Yeah.” Shiro sighs. “Pidge, I… I called you Matt, didn’t I.”

“Yeah. I mean, it’s okay, you didn’t know, it’s like, you know, when you have two cats and they’re the same color almost and you’re half-asleep and one of them is climbing on your face? Not that I was climbing on your face, but like. You know.”

“Yeah.” He meets Pidge’s eyes. “But I’m still sorry.”

Pidge buries their face in their elbow, starting to cry. “I’m sorry too,” they whisper. “I couldn’t—I’m sorry.”

“No,” says Shiro. “No, Pidge. You were so brave, okay? You were so brave.”

“I just wanted—I wanted to pay you back.” Pidge’s voice is still muffled in their elbow. “For, you know, what you did for Matt. I owe you.”

“Listen to me, Pidge,” Shiro says, and Pidge looks up slowly. “You don’t owe me anything.”

There’s a noise across the room. Keith is moving towards them.

“Allura just called in,” he says. “She’s landing the castle now.”

“Phew,” says Lance. “Time to tell these assholes see-you-later-alligator.”

“You can say that again.” Shiro pushes himself up from the floor, stumbling until Keith grabs him. When Hunk has helped Pidge up, Shiro offers them all a grim smile. “Let’s go.”

\----

In the cryopod, he dreams.

_“No, I told you, they didn’t do it! They didn’t do anything!”_

_He’s straining against the bars of some cell, and Pidge is being led away. The light is purple. It’s always purple, and he can hear Pidge screaming._

_Then Pidge is back, or maybe it’s Matt, and whichever one it is stands over him, angry. “I hate you, you know. It’s your fault.”_

_I know, he tries to say, I know, I’m sorry. But nothing comes out; he’s frozen, and Pidge (if this is Matt) or Matt (if this is Pidge) is still screaming._

_And then he’s outside the cell, but the light is still purple, and there are two people on the floor just a little ways away, and they’re dead._

\----

There are noises around him. Soft, whirring noises, and voices too. Shiro opens his eyes to see the door to the cryopod sliding open. Outside, there’s his team, nested in more blankets and pillows than he’s seen anywhere in the castle. Hunk has his head on Lance’s lap; Pidge is snuggled up against Hunk, Keith’s arm flopped over their face.

Shiro steps out of the cryopod. They’re okay, he can hardly believe they’re all okay. And sleeping, too, from the look of it.

Shiro smiles fondly and, doing his best not to wake them, presses the com button on the nearby computer. “Princess Allura?”

“Shiro!”

“I’m out of cryo. Just wanted to report in.”

“Thank you,” Allura says. “It is so good to hear from you again. Are you feeling better?”

“Yes, princess,” Shiro says. “No need to worry.” He hears a noise behind him, some shuffling and then a shout. “Uh, if you’ll excuse me.”

“Of course,” she says, and starts to say something else, but Shiro can’t hear it. He’s being mobbed, hugged from every side.

“You’re back! Are you okay? Did you wake up because Hunk was snoring?”

“We were waiting for you but we fell asleep!”

“Listen, Shiro, don’t abandon me again, okay; putting up with this lot when you’re not around is totally unbearable—”

“Yeah, because no one brings us Capri Suns—”

“Are you hungry?”

They try to move en masse and topple down on the pillows in a tangle of bodies. “The worst thing about space,” Lance is saying, “is there are no Capri Suns,” and Keith pushes him, and Hunk starts arguing for the superiority of juice boxes. Pidge looks at Shiro and laughs.

Shiro laughs, too. He doesn’t know how long it’s been since he last felt like this, warmth flooding through him at the sheer joy of survival. He’s feeling other things too still, guilt and failure and concern—but for now, this is enough.

He is alive. They are all alive. 


End file.
